


logic is a wreath of pretty flowers that smell bad

by weird_bird (2weird4)



Series: 2014 Trek Fics [1]
Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Fluff and Humor, Gift Giving, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-23
Updated: 2016-11-23
Packaged: 2018-09-01 19:20:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 587
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8634847
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/2weird4/pseuds/weird_bird
Summary: Because it’s James T. “My EpiPen’s in My Other Pants” Kirk.





	

**Author's Note:**

> A sort of expanded or companion piece to [this headcanon](http://thepathlesstrekked.tumblr.com/post/79736497310/headcanon-jim-confesses-to-bones-one-day-that-he) (written with approval).
> 
> Title courtesy of [Spock, TOS episode "I, Mudd" (2:46). ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ldezDyDDhRg)

“I rolled around in fields,” Jim tells him, “as a really little kid,” he adds hastily when McCoy grabs for his medkit at the very thought. Jim breaks out in hives about as soon as he smiles on a spring day. And there’s something about the mischief in his face fading to nostalgia that has McCoy’s marshmallow heart aching to bring him flowers, anyway. 

_Origami paper flowers._

It’s brilliant and hypoallergenic, too (although he has to stay away from paper with that particular green dye, of course, because it’s James T. “My EpiPen’s in My Other Pants” Kirk).  
McCoy has performed open-heart surgery on aliens with three hearts. They don’t call them his legendary hands for nothing. So these doodads should be easy-peasy.

“Easy-peasy” finds McCoy’s desk, three days after his resolution, covered in twisted, mangled paper in pinks and yellows and purples. And McCoy’s bent over it, the light of the manic in his eyes and hair hopelessly ruffled by an irritable hand.

Interns and nurses skirt around his workspace with an even wider radius than usual. All except for, of course, Chris Chapel, that goddess on earth, who has just about hit her _dealing with your shit_ quota for the day.

“Finish this report and I’ll teach you to make an origami dragon,” she huffs at him, and it’s not so much a trade-off or a suggestion as a _hop to it before I hypo your maudlin ass, Leonard Horatio McCoy._ Delivered in the softest of voices with the sweetest of smiles, of course.

McCoy hops to it.

“Haven’t done this in years,” she admits to him over lunch, prettily perched on his desk. He should hate her a little when she’s surrounded by a pile of five blossoms in about as many minutes, but mostly he’s just thanking her and any deities listening.

Obstinately, he turns down the handful of flowers and says he’ll make his own, thanks, he gets it now.

“It could be a chrysanthemum. A blurry one,” she offers, peering at the smashed mess he’s so painstakingly produced.

He did not get an M.D to make _blurry chrysanthemums._ So back to the drawing board it is. Or the folding board, as it were. He probably uses up half a tree’s worth of paper in less than an hour (his 23rd century morals are somewhere in a corner, wincing and cowering away from his McCoy mule-stubbornness).

Six days after he’s decided to make Jim his own little garden, he has it. In a sea of ruined lumps and wanna-be paper peonies, there it lies in the middle: a pearl of perfection, every petal flawless, every fold knife-sharp.

“That’s great, Doctor. Now you just need enough to cover his pillow.”

Seven days and one night after his stupid self-induced floral nightmare began, McCoy makes good on that. On his pillow, right around the faint depression where Jim lays his thick head, he arranges a meadow’s worth of sweet pastel flowers.

Jim gives him funny looks when he sees McCoy covertly taking the regen to his papercuts or flexing his sore fist awkwardly at his side. It’s worth every last one and every snicker from the gently sadistic Chris Chapel, too. Because Jim gets this beautiful glass box for them and it’s no field, but when he carries them to the ship and holds them to his heart with all that clear-sky joy in his crinkled eyes, well.

There might be just enough sunshine there for even those little paper flowers to grow.


End file.
